


Vint Minuts d'Espera

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never mind trophies; there's something else Marc wants on his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vint Minuts d'Espera

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Marcel won Gstaad in July 2011. Marc sat with Marcel's parents, and Giddy!Daddy [ruffled Marc's hair](http://i41.tinypic.com/ok9xmv.gif) as Marcel namechecked him during the trophy presentation. It was precious.  
> 

  
'It's no good, it's never going to behave. Are you ready? Where did I leave my tie?'

Marcel gives up on ever controlling the tufty bit at the front of his hair. He dashes out of the bathroom, and begins (somewhat frenziedly) rummaging through the pile of clothes on the chair. He stops abruptly when he spots Marc sitting in his shirttails on the bed, amusement flickering across his face.

'Marc! You're not dressed—it's past eight, we're meeting my parents at eight-thirty!'

'Relax, Marcel. We only have to get downstairs to the lobby: we've got twenty minutes.'

The spluttered protests (about how he was always late, this time he wants to be on time, he doesn't want his Mama to think they've been in bed since he'd finished with the press (they have)) are cut off when Marc snakes his arms round Marcel's waist and begins nibbling at his jaw.

'You fret too much, Marcel. You just won them a trophy; I don't think they'll be watching the clock too closely—'

Marc's mouth stills, and Marcel feels it curve into a smile beneath his ear. Suddenly, Marc is whirling away from him, tipping the heap of clothes from the chair to the floor and pushing Marcel down onto it. With a 'wait there!' he vanishes into the bathroom. Marcel does as he is told (he is used to doing as he is told).

When Marc emerges, he has his arms full of warm towels, which he drapes around Marcel's shoulders before disappearing again. The second time he has a bowl of water and some facecloths, and the third a small wooden pot, a stubby, ceramic-handled brush and an old-fashioned razor. He sets them all out on the dresser and rolls up his sleeves.

'You've not shaved today. I'm going to shave you.'

Any questions are cut off when Marc swathes Marcel's lower face with hot, wet facecloths. He settles himself astride Marcel's lap and pats the flannels gently. Marcel's brow furrows in confusion, and Marc strokes his cheek with one finger.

'Call it my birthday present. I've always wanted to shave someone, I—I think it's so …intimate.'

Marc can't hold Marcel's gaze, and busies himself taking the lid from the wooden pot. He sprinkles a little water on the top and swirls the brush around inside. The air is filled with the scent of almonds and Issey Miyake, and Marcel breathes deeply.

Peeling the flannels away, Marc circles the soap-laden brush over Marcel's face. It's soft and rhythmic, and tickles a little under his chin. He stifles a nervous giggle. Round and round the brush goes; the cadence seeming to match the pounding of his heart. Marc bites his lip in concentration; only the fleeting thought that he'd end up eating shaving cream keeps Marcel from mirroring this action. He can see Marc's chest moving as he breathes (in, out, in), feels the press of bare thighs against his own, reminds himself to blink.

Once Marcel's face is covered with pristine white foam ('you look like Father Christmas', Marc murmurs), Marc leans across to pick up the razor. The movement makes his shirt ride up, and Marcel can't stop his hand from sliding up to brush against the soft skin it reveals. He traces a finger along the crinkled waistband of Marc's boxer shorts; Marc hisses a breath and shivers in Marcel's lap. He swats the hand away ('you don't want to make me squirm when I'm holding a razor!') and settles himself again.

With the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration, Marc touches the razor to Marcel's cheek. It's cold, and he tries not to flinch, but it still nicks him. Marc's eyes grow wide, and he leans forward and kisses away the trace of blood. The next time, Marcel is ready, and the razor rasps a path along his jaw. Marc's fingertips are warm against his ear, thumb pressing softly against his chin, holding his head still. The middle finger rubs small circles behind his ear, and Marcel swallows.

Slowly, Marc works the razor across Marcel's face, pausing every so often, twisting to rinse the blade in the bowl of water. Marcel feels warm breath on his cheek; hears the soft scraping of the razor across his skin; sees the swirl of Marc's hair at his crown (he needs a haircut); smells the sweet scent of almonds (almost tastes them, if he's not careful). Everything he is is distilled in this moment, and it is perfect. He loops his arms around Marc, hands clasping loosely behind his back, and concentrates on _being_.

All too soon, it's done. Marc drops the razor in the bowl one last time, and cleans Marcel's face with a towel. The tube he pulls out of his shirt pocket is silver, and the cream Marc squeezes into his hands smells fresh and citrusy. It's cool against Marcel's skin; Marc's fingers smooth it in with a touch that becomes increasingly delicate, fingertips barely ghosting the contours of Marcel's face. All the time Marc's eyes hold his, and Marcel thinks that perhaps the cliché about drowning in someone's eyes isn't that clichéd after all.

Marc reaches out and snags Marcel's tie (it was hanging on the dresser drawer handle, he has no idea how he didn't see it there earlier) and slides it underneath his collar. Frowning with concentration, Marc carefully knots it. It takes three tries ('it's all backwards doing it on someone else'), but when it's tied, Marc uses it to pull him closer.

Their kiss is tender, and sweet, and …far too short. Marcel tightens his hold on Marc's waist, and can't help a small whimper of disappointment as Marc lifts his head. He rests his forehead against Marcel's and a finger slips inside Marcel's collar, skimming idle shapes on the nape of his neck. They sit like that for a moment: Marcel never wants to let go of the comforting warmth of Marc's weight in his lap. Marc gives a low chuckle and reminds Marcel how eager he was to go downstairs to meet his parents.

'I've changed my mind,' Marcel mutters. He buries his face in Marc's neck; one hand ruffles the back of Marc's hair.

'I like it better when you do that than when your papa does,' Marc whispers, and Marcel cuddles him closer. He wonders if anything could have been better than today has been.

He is starting to think he could stay like this forever (wonders if he has), but Marc gives a tug at his tie and gets up.

'See? Eight twenty-five. Perfect timing.'

Marc pulls on his trousers and laces up his shoes. They pick up their wallets and phones, and Marcel catches Marc for one last kiss.

The door clicks softly closed behind them.


End file.
